Chimera's Call
by Tempestt Londyn
Summary: "It is harder to kill a phantom than a reality." -Virginia Woolf ; Written for Lady Eleanor Boleyn's "Christmas Carol" challenge. Challenge 44 on the Bellatrix Lestrange: The Dark Lord's Most Faithful forum.


**Author's Notes: **_In response to Lady Eleanor Boleyn's "Christmas carol" challenge-write a story using one or more Harry Potter characters and a Christmas Carol. You can just reference the Christmas carol, if you wish, but there has to be at least one mention of a carol. Entries have a requirement of 500-1K words. Selected carol-"The Huron Carol ('Twas in the Moon of Wintertime)." 982 words. _

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><p>"<em>It is harder to kill a phantom than a reality." <em>

_-Virginia Woolf_

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><p><strong>:~: Chimera's Call :~:<strong>

Rabastan inwardly winces, his chilled teeth quivering, unconsciously tearing frostbitten skin away from his lips.

Warily, he paces the gravely, starlit streets of the village, pink-tinged ears elevating as children, culprits of the frivolous laughter, emerge from their dwellings. Their titters, symphonies of sickening, blithesome anarchy, ride the wind, aided by the darkness as they creep ever more closely.

Sweet aromas of tomorrow's dinner entice him from countless abodes, ascending his nostrils and overwhelming his senses so thoroughly that he believes himself led astray. From his coat, he retrieves the guide, a thin sliver of parchment on which his is penned his destination in stylish, cursive writing.

"Happy Christmas."

Rabastan's march ceases in an instant, critical pupils all but reduced to slits as his mind works to digest the most peculiar of sights-people, the aged and those in their primes, congregated around some poorly assembled contraption.

Treacherous feet lead him forth against better judgment and Rabastan suddenly stands beside the one who has greeted him-a girl of four or five, he supposed, clothed in a pristine white robe, a ring, bursting with golden light, levitating atop her head. Hair of honey is woven in a braid; eyes of the night sky shimmer with excitement.

Rabastan pushes himself forward, indignant gasps falling on deaf ears as he shudders, frightened how uncannily the girl resembles...

But this Apparition will not make a fool of him.

Not tonight.

"What is _this_?" He demands rather gruffly, pupils scanning a lodge of broken bark in which a cherub-faced infant lie, swaddled in a robe of rabbit skin.

His mouth twists.

"_This_," barks a middle-aged woman to his left, her severe, brown face wrinkling even more in the wake of such blatant ignorance, "is our humble depiction of the Nativity story."

"The Nat-what's this rubbish?"

A whip of wind silences all chatter as people crane their necks to secure good looks at he who dares undermine logic.

They congregate swiftly, as if white hot scalpels await the timid, trapping the pair in a circle.

"The Nativity Story," she proceeds, voice dripping with a fiery rain, "recounts the birth of our Lord and Savior."

Silence.

Rabastan stands there, hating himself for having become so engaged in this fairytale of a baby sent to become mankind's rock and salvation.

Try as he might, he is incapable of burying an amused smirk.

"Is there a problem?"

"Actually, there is. I'm _late_."

Rabastan splits the circle, aware of hisses that grow increasingly more hostile in the distance.

_Mudbloods. They'll soon outnumber us and eat our world alive. _

What a fool he is, lobbied from bed by the queen of all cat and mouse games.

_And I'm always the hunted. _

The Parish Church of Saint Clementine sits innocently at the end of Godric's Hollow, but Rabastan's words are anything _but _as he swings the doors open, almost maniacally.

"Andromeda!"

_(The overture begins.) _

"How lovely of you to join me." She breathes calmly, rising from a pew nearest the altar to place a kiss on his numb lips. Her arms encircle his neck.

"Why have you summoned me here?" He asks, grasping her hands in his. "Do you know there are _mudbloods _outside, frolicking with their equally muddy tadpoles in these temperatures?"

Andromeda smiles indulgently. "Forgive me. I knew not that the welfare of the lower-class was of your utmost concern. Rather, an _heir_...should be your utmost concern."

Rabastan blanches noticeably and weighs his options. The sensible route is to explain-for the umpteenth time-that he desires a happy marriage as much as she. But an heir will only hinder their responsibilities to the Dark Lord, especially as she is adamant to covertly undergo Healer training.

But this is not the Andromeda Black he once knew. This woman is otherworldly, a beautiful exterior, but grotesque soul, and sensible chatter is unheard of where her kind is concerned.

He gives her the benefit of the doubt and soon wishes he hadn't.

Rabastan catches Andromeda's wrist a split second before her fist breaks his nose. She spouts insults that no woman of her upbringing should ever use.

_I'll have to kill her._

Political correctness will be _his _Savior tonight. There is no shortage of Lestrange men and slaying women isn't a dream of his, but he has a reputation to uphold-one that does not include Andromeda's lies that he "shoots blanks" or is impotent.

_Merlin, I can hear the snickers. _

Rabastan pulls her into a kiss, nails digging into the back of her neck as he searched his pockets for the wand.

But he concedes defeat when the flash of Andromeda's eyes illumines the shade his closed eyelids grant.

_She's too quick for me. _

_She's always been. _

Navy orbs reflect briefly on silver's side as time betrays him.

Andromeda laughs in reply to what he presumes is his quizzical brow before he chokes, blood spurting from his mouth.

_(The orchestra plays a tragic hymn.)_

Rabastan collapses against the wooden doors, the mistletoe falling at his fiancée's feet. Andromeda shifts the blade, thrusting it deeper. His muscles are one fire, his mind swirling around the daggers she shot him at dinner, the young girl with her hair and his eyes...

_Maybe I should've snapped **her **neck...maybe_ **_Andromeda _**_would come back..._

"Aww..." She smirks, loose copper curls bouncing as the blade ruptures a vital organ. Satisfied, she pulls the bloody knife from his chest, holds the mistletoe above their heads, and places her lips on his.

_Idiot, __**you **__left home. You've finished __**yourself**_.

Rabastan writhes, eyes large, but strength fails him, blood and saliva streaming into his open wound.

A bell tolls, striking midnight.

"Happy Christmas." Andromeda hums and exits the temple.

_(This is the fate of their opera.)_

Rabastan coughs roughly, crimson fingertips painting his lips.

_(The music dies.)_

Breathing is ragged.

His head rolls forward.

Vision wanes.

His eyes are glassy.

_(The curtain falls. His heart follows.)_

**~:~**

**Fin. **


End file.
